<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>A Farewell to Summer by gildedfrost</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540453">A Farewell to Summer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost'>gildedfrost</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Baking, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Trans Hank Anderson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:36:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,302</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540453</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank's been stuck for a long time. It's the passion he sees in a baking vlog, Eight's Cakes, that finally motivates him to seek help. He signs up for an addiction recovery group, where he meets Connor Arkait.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Connor &amp; CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60, Hank Anderson/Connor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Hello, everyone, and welcome to today’s episode of Eight’s Cakes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank settles into his sofa, Sumo at his feet and a steaming cup of cocoa in his hands. The video plays on his TV through his tablet’s bluetooth connection. It’s not a genre of video he ever expected to get into, given that he never bakes anything without a box mix, but after heading down the rabbit hole one day thanks to algorithmic suggestions, he’s hooked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soft sound of flour being poured into a metal bowl soothes him. Eight, as he calls himself (or RK800, his username on the site), shares videos once or twice a week, and his channel is one of Hank’s favorites. His voice is as smooth and relaxing as the rest of the audio. He doesn’t narrate every video (an inconsistency Hank’s seen complaints about in the comments), but Hank finds himself drawn in regardless. The photography of the ingredients and the movement of his hands are hypnotizing. Sometimes it feels like Hank knows him, like his voice is that of a friend’s, even though he’s never even seen Eight’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Losing himself in the calming sights and sounds of baking is better than putting on whatever news or crime drama he could find, as he used to do. It’s healthier for his state of mind and keeps his thoughts from drifting back to his old job. He held onto it as long as he could until Jeffrey couldn’t keep covering for him anymore. Hank regrets the tirade he unleashed on his old friend, and he still stews sometimes, but he knows deep down that Jeffrey gave him far more than he deserved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank isn’t spiraling anymore. At least, that’s what he tells himself, despite the bourbon in his cocoa and the beer before that. His pistol remains securely locked away, though he struggles to stay afloat some days and dives right into other self-destructive tendencies. He’s sent in job applications, attended some interviews, and he counts his blessings when he gets anywhere; Jeffrey could have fired him, but he gave Hank the opportunity to hand in his own resignation, and that means he doesn’t have to reveal his shortcomings to every potential employer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His savings will tide him over for a while. He’s still got a fair bit left over from his move two and a half years ago, downsizing to a small house on the canals with just enough space for him and his dog. He never thought he’d want more—hell, that he’d want anything again, just going through the motions from day to day after scraping himself off the floor. That’s something else Eight gives him: A window into a good life, one that’s filled with passion and a bright future, boundless creativity and no self-doubt. His most recent videos showcase a new kitchen, shiny and picture perfect, with a few new spices and knick-knacks in every update. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank wants a kitchen like that. He doesn’t have a use for it, but it’s nice to think that someday he could. Maybe he could pick up baking, or feed himself homemade meals that aren’t just stir-fry. Or it could be best to start out small and make things like homemade hot chocolate or cake in a mug. He’s never tried any of Eight’s recipes, but he thinks those ones could be worth a try, if only to get himself doing something with his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of him feels like doing anything for himself would feel like a sham, like it’s covering up the ugly person he truly is. Or that he doesn’t deserve it, not after everything he’s put people through, and not when Cole—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been years since he last saw a therapist. The words stick in his head, telling him to learn to live his life as it is now, with the good and the bad. To keep Cole in his heart, but not to dwell, and not to place undue burden on the kid’s memory by using it as an excuse to wallow in his own depression. The suggestion that he would disrespect his own kid, or that he doesn’t have a right to feel bad, gets his blood pumping every time he thinks about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eight pours chocolate chips into a glass bowl and Hank reigns in his anger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been stuck for a long time. Now that he’s out of work and without a routine, that fact is finally thrown in his face, and he feels like shit. It’s like trying to move through unyielding mud. Every day has its ups and downs, but they all end with him thinking about what a reprehensible human being he is, or how his body is falling apart years ahead of time, or all the years that Cole never got to see. He’s sabotaged his own friendships, from Jeffrey and Ben to his own family and ex-wife, and he wonders if he should regret any of it. How life would have been had he not come out and transitioned, or if he’d tried not to push Kate away so hard, or if he’d never adopted Cole. Did he try hard enough to make his family understand? Is he past the point of reconciliation with his old friends? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That last question might have some merit. He thinks back to the flyers that Jeffrey gave him when he told Hank to get out. Therapists, workshops, help groups, all that junk. A none-too-subtle way of telling Hank to get his shit together. He suspects Jeffrey might still accept him, but he has to admit, he can’t see their friendship standing up without something changing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he pours himself some more bourbon straight into the cocoa and cracks open his laptop to sign up for a space on any of these things that accepts online reservations, Eight’s low, raspy voice in the background talking about the flavor of ruby chocolate and his favorite ways to use it, and he feels so lonely and ashamed knowing that his closest friends right now are a dog and some man who doesn’t even know he exists. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know if he’s ready for recovery yet, but it’s been three years now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s overdue for a change.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Connor lingers in the lobby of the café as he waits for his order, fidgeting with his coin as he resists the urge to check his phone just so he appears to be doing something. There’s enough people here that he feels a need to get out of their sight, even though most are already occupied with their own friends, family, or devices. One customer has a paper book, uncommon as those are nowadays.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He isn’t ashamed to be here, but he doesn’t like the thought of being scrutinized because of the meeting he’s about to attend in one of the back rooms. He dresses the same as he does for work specifically to dissuade any assumptions about himself. If he looks professional, then he is professional. Even if his brother says it makes him look like he has a stick up his ass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the barista calls out his order, he steps forward and takes it quickly with a muttered ‘thank you’ before heading towards the designated meeting room. There’s still ten minutes to go before it begins and it looks like half the crowd is here already. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning,” he says, taking his usual seat at the far end away from the white board. Some of the usuals wave back: Echo, Amanda, and Ralph, all of whom he’s fairly familiar with. They were quick to welcome him when he moved to Detroit two months ago, and they’re the last people who would pass judgment around here. It helps soothe his nerves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes he feels like all his sins are on display, like everyone in this room can see the track marks under his sleeves or know the last time he got high. Maybe they can; they already know there’s more to him than the bland paralegal he looks like, and it might not be hard to guess his drug of choice or any related details. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(At least he hasn’t invited them out for drinks. He made that mistake once, in his first group, and he’s never forgotten that embarrassment.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s only half-listening as Amanda talks about her granddaughter to Echo when he spots someone new walking awkwardly down the short hall through the crack in the door. The guy’s an older man, grey hair and beard, with a coffee in hand. Definitely new, or if not, he’s been away a long while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the man reaches the door and hesitates, Connor beckons him in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am I in the right place?” He looks at Connor’s get-up—tie and everything—but takes a seat beside him. More likely due to the distance from the board than anything else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll start with the quarterly marketing report in five,” Connor says, to which the other man’s eyes crinkle. “My name’s Connor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hank. I, uh.” He takes a sip from his coffee, gathering his words. “I’ve never been to, well. Anything like this. I don’t know how this goes, exactly. Do we go in a circle, talk about ourselves, admit we’re—whatever?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We do introductions when there’s someone new,” Connor says. It’s clear that Hank is uncomfortable here but trying not to show it much. “It’s not 12-step. We don’t ask anyone to admit they’re an addict or to share their time clean. Sober, I mean. It’s up to you how you introduce yourself. We share some wins, or positive things in our lives, then Markus leads a discussion. Participation is optional.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No sponsors or tokens, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not with our system. I see the appeal, but it’s not for everyone.” Connor doesn’t count the days. He can’t, not when he sometimes fails to reach one, or when a week seems insurmountable. A moving goalpost of pass/fail that he’s always in danger of failing. It doesn’t feel as much like a failure if he doesn’t measure his path in numbers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up at Hank’s face. The other man is tired and anxious, with wrinkles and hair that’s mostly gray, with a bit of white showing through, and his eyes are a bright, crystalline blue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s easy to tell himself he doesn’t have it that bad. That the fact that he can function from day to day means he shouldn’t use up resources, or that this space isn’t meant for him, or he’s not really addicted to anything and he’s faking it. But Hank doesn’t look like an addict, either. (That was one of their topics last week: Dealing with stereotypes and assumptions. Connor’s still unlearning years of prejudice and self-hate.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he tells himself not to make any assumptions. Until Hank says anything, he doesn’t need to know if he’s years sober or just starting his recovery, relapsed or thinking about it. He used to be interested in that, both to validate himself and add it to his mental packet of information about a person, but he finds that he wasn’t holding onto that information for any good reason. He focuses on what these things mean to the person instead, when shared. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the meeting begins, Markus gives Hank a warm welcome. The meeting goes exactly as Connor said it would, and he keeps himself from glancing at Hank too often, but the older man seems to relax as time goes on. Hank doesn’t participate in the discussion topic—relationships with friends and family—and Connor’s own participation is nominal, not yet comfortable diving into the topic of his parents. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The meeting ends on a positive note. Over the course of a few minutes, everyone shuffles out of the room, chatting with each other and departing at various intervals. Connor lingers in the café, peering up at the menu, and he catches part of a conversation as the others pass by.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As I said, if you have any questions or concerns, you’ve got my contact information,” Markus says, voice warm and genuine. He grasps Hank’s hand in both of his with a winning smile. “The schedule is online and you can find the center’s other resources on our website. We’re glad to have you, Hank.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks for having me, I guess.” Hank shrugs, putting his hands back in his pockets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll see you around.” Markus turns to Connor, smile softening. “Hey. Everything okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My next stop is therapy, so.” Connor grins crookedly. “Hell no.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Markus claps him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna do great. Besides, isn’t that just an excuse to bake yourself something nice after?” he teases. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s only so many cakes I can bake in a week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Connor sighs and crosses his arms. “Tropical fruit trifle. Passionfruit, coconut, and orange. I’ll have enough to share with my brothers and niece.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There you go. That sounds delicious,” Markus says, pleased. “I’ve got to get going, but you enjoy your evening. I’ll see you next time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I plan on it. See you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Markus leaves, and Connor expects Hank to follow, but instead he stays standing, only silent for a moment. “So you bake?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Connor steps in line for his next coffee. The caffeine will keep him up late, but it will give him the energy to keep his hands busy. “Do you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve thought about it. You watch cooking shows or anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Clips and videos online. There’s a lot of creative recipes out there. Normally I come up with my own, using influence from others. It’s kind of my only hobby.” Everything else falls through; if it’s not practical, he loses interest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders if Hank has a kid. That would be pretty good motivation to bake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Watching videos, I mean. I didn’t intend to learn anything from them, but I remember some things. Just…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it?” Connor asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank turns his head away. “I haven’t done anything new in a long time. Getting the motivation, learning something new—it sounds easy, but it sure doesn’t feel that way, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you can take that first step, that’s the one that matters most,” Connor says. He’s not a very good motivational speaker, but he recognizes that Hank is trying on two fronts here: He’s seeking help and he’s making connections. He might be slouching over with a permanent frown on his face, but he’s trying. “Even if you’re just putting cookie dough in the oven or making a box cake. It’s all about learning the motions and gaining the confidence.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And don’t start out with tropical trifles made from scratch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t get good at desserts without experimenting, but I can’t tell you how many times that went sideways on me. Hey,” Connor says, and Hank turns back to face him fully. “If you want some help, let me know. I can give you my number.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank stares at him for a long moment, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and hands it over. “You’re assuming I’ll stick to any of this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Connor keys in his information. “I don’t care if you flake,” he says as he types. It would hurt, he thinks, to try to make a friend and have that relationship crumble so quickly, but he’s in a space where he can deal with that now. “I won’t judge. Keep my number anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright.” Connor returns the phone and Hank offers his hand, which Connor shakes. “It’s been nice meeting you, Connor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Likewise.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two weeks later, Hank starts with banana bread.</p>
<p>He grabs some discount bananas that look perfectly ripe, a couple types of flour and sugar, flavor extracts, chocolate chips, and a bunch of other staples for his pantry and fridge. Spices, canned foods, and frozen meats, too, because then when he convinces himself to make actual food, the lack of ingredients won’t be an excuse not to.</p>
<p>Banana bread can’t be easy to mess up, and if he does, it’s cheap enough to try again. It helps that Eight has a video demonstrating a few different banana bread recipes which Hank can follow along with.</p>
<p>Hank gets home, dredges up the motivation to put everything away. Then, so that he doesn’t chicken out, he texts Connor for the first time.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Hank: im baking banana bread<br/></em>
  <em>&gt; Hank: teaching this old dog some new tricks<br/></em>
  <em>&gt; Hank: this is hank btw not some rando</em>
</p>
<p>The meetings are twice a week, and somehow, Hank has managed to attend three more of them in that time span. It hasn’t done him very much good, if he’s being honest, aside from pushing him to think about some things he’s used to ignoring, but he’s managed to skip a few drinks in the intervening afternoons. Or delay them. He’s not sure which. It’s a step in the right direction, and Connor told him as much.</p>
<p>He’s starting to recognize the regulars. There’s Amanda, a professor at a local university who’s been sober for half a decade now, and who gives Hank some hope that he can get better even at 53; Echo, who works marketing for a bank and just moved in with her fiancée; Ralph, who’s studying biology on his own after having dropped out of college, and who’s filled with far too much optimism; and many others.</p>
<p>And, of course, Connor.</p>
<p>The guy brought lemon bars to share at the meeting yesterday. They were absolutely divine, and Hank’s made a note to pester him about the recipe once he’s confident he won’t do something catastrophic like using salt instead of sugar. The snacks didn’t quite hide the stress in Connor’s face, and Hank hopes he’s doing alright. Connor’s a restless ball of energy, always fidgeting and moving about, but he walks and talks like he’s got nothing to fear. If Hank had to guess, he’d say Connor’s been going to meetings like this for years, and probably been sober for months now. It’s a comfort that someone like that—hell, like all of them—wants anything to do with him.</p>
<p>He preheats the oven, pulls out an old bread pan, and gets to work.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Connor groans into his cushion when his phone chimes. When he checks the time, taking a few seconds to accommodate for the blurriness of his eyes, he finds that only ten minutes have passed. It feels like hours since he dropped down onto the couch, ready to sleep away the rest of the afternoon and do absolutely nothing while feeling completely miserable.</p>
<p>It’s day two. This one always hits the hardest every time he tries to quit, making him shiver and ache and sending his mind into overdrive. It is so very tempting to get up and find the red ice he has stashed away and stop feeling like this, and that’s part of why he’s out here in his living room, because if he sits still then he can’t wander.</p>
<p>He holds the phone to his chest, cradling it like it’s a precious lifeline. It’s a few minutes until he actually musters up the nerve to check the texts.</p>
<p>It’s Hank.</p>
<p>If it’s conversation Hank wants, Connor will give it to him. He’s torn between shutting out the world and clinging to anyone else, but if Hank wants to chat, that makes the decision a little bit easier.</p>
<p>He texts the first thing that comes to mind and hopes it comes across as witty as he thinks it is.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Connor: I don’t think Sumo is trained in operating kitchen appliances.</em>
</p>
<p>He situates himself so he’s comfortably on his back. The headache that had previously subsided is threatening a return. He sets the phone on his chest and closes his eyes, waiting for the next text.</p>
<p>His bones hurt. Maybe he ought to take a bath.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Hank: u know what imean<br/></em>
  <em>&gt; Hank: u baking anything today?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Connor: I wasn’t planning on it.</em>
</p>
<p>The stress of everything feels like too much sometimes. Between calling off work, another letter from his parents addressed to his deadname, and the withdrawal symptoms, he just wants to stop existing. Disappear into the ether. Let the universe continue on without him.</p>
<p>Instead, he now has… a photo of a St. Bernard wearing an apron with a margarita on it.</p>
<p>“That’s adorable.” He sends a smiley face in response.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Hank: got any banana bread tips<br/></em>
  <em>&gt; Hank: ?</em>
</p>
<p>He could give plenty of advice, but with him hurting as he is, typing it out would be a hassle. So he sends a link to one of his old videos on the topic instead, hoping it doesn’t get weird when Hank sees videos of him cooking.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Hank: oh i love 8<br/></em>
  <em>&gt; Hank: neat recipes smooth voice<br/></em>
  <em>&gt; Hank: im using his reicpe</em>
</p>
<p>A chuckle bubbles out of Connor. Did Hank really not realize it’s him? He thought it would be obvious.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Connor: My advice: Follow the recipe. I can help you troubleshoot if something doesn’t turn out right.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Hank: ty</em>
</p>
<p>He contemplates pretending the world doesn’t exist so he can mope on his couch for the rest of the afternoon, but he knows it’s not ideal. He probably should have phoned a friend or asked someone to stop by today. It feels too late now, but he has Hank on the other end. That might be enough.</p>
<p>It’s been a few days since he last filmed, anyway. Maybe it would do him some good to go through those motions and talk through things to a camera. (It’s good money on the side, too, enough that it covers most of his rent, and he notices the cut if he posts off-schedule.) And that mascarpone in the fridge should really be used up soon.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Connor: Cheesecake, tiramisu, or soufflé?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Hank: are u flirting or asking my opinion<br/></em>
  <em>&gt; Hank: bc yes</em>
</p>
<p>Connor laughs quietly. He stands, cracking his wrists, and decisively steps away so that he doesn’t let himself sit back down. It does his ego some good to know that Hank is fond of his channel and sounds like he’d eat whatever Connor plates up.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Connor: Maybe we can get together and share. How’s tomorrow sound? ;)</em>
</p>
<p>He winces right after sending the invitation. It’s the weekend and he has the day off, but he knows Hank will see the state he’s in, the vulnerability a side of him that he hates to show. He tells himself Hank knows what it’s like. It doesn’t help much.</p>
<p>But he doesn’t retract the invite.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Hank preps the ingredients, making sure to grease the pan because he knows he’ll forget that step, while texting back and forth with Connor. Once he sees the invite, he finishes mixing, pours, and chucks the pan in the oven, setting a timer.</p>
<p>He looks at Sumo, who’s settled in atop the couch, which Hank has long since stopped pushing him off of. It’s just the two of them, after all. “Digital wink. What do you think, boy? Is he actually flirting with me?”</p>
<p>Sumo, as expected, has no wisdom to share.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Hank: do u make fancy cheesecakes with all the layers n toppings n stuff</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Connor: If I ever make a single-layer cake, I’ve done something wrong.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Hank: those lemon bars weer single layer</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Connor: Not a cake!<br/></em>
  <em>&gt; Connor: Tiramisu cheesecake it is. </em>
</p>
<p>Those words alone are enough to make his mouth water. He firmly keeps his mind from following the thread of him possibly making something like that someday: Nobody jumps from point A to point Q, and it’s too daunting to think about when he’s still taking baby steps. If he sticks with this, he could learn to make a cheesecake, and that’s a feasible goal.</p>
<p>Maybe he should write down some plans for himself. If he had a therapist, they might recommend he do that.</p>
<p>He isn’t committed yet, so he doesn’t.</p>
<p>Instead, he sits on the floor in front of the couch and puts on a playlist of Eight’s videos.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Setup helps put Connor into the standard mindset for baking, calming him the same way it always does. There’s nothing he can do about the tremors in his hands; as long as nothing goes horribly wrong, it should be fine, and he can edit out any parts where he’s too shaky.</p>
<p>Ingredients, camera, mic, clean workspace. He eats some pickled radishes so the food can help stabilize him, changes into nicer clothes, and slathers a bit of makeup on his arms, then deems himself ready to go. It’s fortunate he never films his face, because the stubble is starting to look ugly.</p>
<p>Hank hasn’t texted him back, but Connor’s managing to keep himself busy, so he doesn’t mind. Once everything is all set up, he sends one last text—<em>BRB, making cheesecake—</em>and starts to film.</p>
<p>The clink of chocolate into a glass bowl and the way it melts is pleasant, and so is the snap after he tempers some for the top of the dessert. The vanilla and mascarpone smell heavenly. The espresso he makes is so tempting he can’t resist making one for himself.</p>
<p>One of his favorite things about this is that it feels like he’s in a café, some fancy artisanal place with the finest organic ingredients and a professional workspace. He can settle into his role as a teacher, with skills and advice for others, and as a helper who makes others happy. Despite the physical disconnect from his viewers, it makes his heart swell when he hears them talk about how much they like the sounds and his voice, or that they tried one of his recipes, or they got inspired to start baking because of him.</p>
<p>Maybe there isn’t so much distance now. He’s influencing Hank. It’s the first time he’s met someone out in the wild who’s mentioned his channel.</p>
<p>His mind doesn’t drift while he’s in the zone. He bakes, makes the toppings, puts everything together, and finally, artistically cuts a slice for the camera.</p>
<p>Connor sends a photo to Hank once it’s done, and finds that Hank’s already sent him a picture of the banana bread. The crumb on it looks good.</p>
<p>
  <em>&gt; Connor: How’s it taste?</em>
</p>
<p>He sits back down on the couch, letting out a groan as the ache in all his limbs returns, then digs in.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The banana bread tastes like banana bread.</p>
<p>Hank shouldn’t be disappointed. It’s not a bad banana bread, and it’s not dried out, but there’s nothing spectacular to it. He should count it as a win. It feels a little ridiculous to be proud of something so simple that anyone could do, but he’s never done it before, and it turned out fine.</p>
<p>He sends a picture of it. It’s not pretty, but part of him wants to prove to Connor that he didn’t flake. He’s not sure how much faith the other man has in him. But he’s done it, and now he’s made himself comfortable on the couch to watch some more baking videos.</p>
<p>The bread gets caught in his throat when the next video plays.</p>
<p>“Welcome to Eight’s Cakes,” Eight says. “I can’t wait to share my favorite fall flavors with all of you, but it’s time for a farewell to summer. Today, I want to bring out the bright, rich flavors of tropical fruits and mascarpone, balanced with the lightness of coconut cream and my favorite sponge recipe.”</p>
<p>Sitting on the counter before him are passionfruit, coconut, and oranges, and that’s when it clicks.</p>
<p>The freckles on his arms are consistent with those on Connor’s face. The hands move as animatedly as Connor’s do when he’s talking. And that voice—Hank can’t believe he didn’t put together the voice! It pinged him as familiar, just not this familiar.</p>
<p>It gives him something to think about, two identities he has to reconcile in his head: Eight, the passionate, professional, skilled baker; and Connor, who’s a mix of things all on his own, carrying the air of a confident man but attending an addiction recovery group, who fidgets often and quietly avoids talking about the same things Hank does.</p>
<p>He takes a shower while he thinks. It helps stave off the headache he has from drinking soda instead of beer. All sorts of negative thoughts run through his head, how Connor is so much better than him, he can’t do shit, and all the usual he’s been telling himself for the past forty years.</p>
<p>In the end, there’s one thought that sticks: Connor wants to spend time with him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They don’t get the chance to hang out the next day. Hank feels like he’s letting Connor down, but when Connor gets back to him to say he wasn’t feeling great anyway, it reassures him. They’ve got plenty of time, and it gives Hank the opportunity to improve his recipe. Or learn to make something better. Maybe a glaze for the banana bread? But after a whole loaf, he’s ready to eat something different.</p>
<p>He treats himself to cookies from a local bakery. Baking one dessert in a week is enough; he doesn’t need to push himself.</p>
<p>The conclusion he’s arrived at, after a bit of thought, is that it’s really cool to meet someone he looks up to. Also that Connor definitely laughed at him for not putting the pieces together. As easy as it would be to throw in the towel and say he’s shit, he can’t do anything, he’ll never be on Connor’s level—and he’s already said that to himself so many times—he can’t let someone else’s passion be the cause of him spiraling.</p>
<p>His plan to strike up a conversation about Connor’s videos (and hope he doesn’t come off as a creep in the process) falls short as Connor doesn’t show up to either meeting that week. Hank is proud of himself for managing to make it to every one of them as part of his weekly schedule, and Connor has always been in attendance. He doesn’t think much of it after the first absence, but the second worries him.</p>
<p>It shouldn’t be any of his business. He knows Connor has a busy job and family he could schedule time with. But he’s still got a sharp eye, and at both meetings, he catches Markus glancing out at the hall like Connor’s going to step in a few minutes late.</p>
<p>He sits in the café, mulling over whether he should bother Connor with a text, then decides not to. If Connor wanted his help, he would have contacted him already, right? He’s probably just busy and definitely doesn’t need a near-stranger texting him because he skipped a meeting.</p>
<p>He’ll give it one more meeting, he decides. Then he’ll check in on him.</p>
<p>Turns out he doesn’t have to wait that long.</p>
<p>The strip mall is busy on a Tuesday evening, especially the restaurants and food stores. Hank’s only here because there’s a sale on shirts at one of the shops, and while he has plenty of nice shirts, he could do with a few that fit him better and make him look like he has his life together. Summer products are on sale to make way for fall, making it the perfect opportunity to go shopping. (That, and he has an interview tomorrow.)</p>
<p>When he’s browsing one of the mismatched sale racks, a bit of movement over by the sweaters catches his eye. He glances over, something familiar pulling at him, and realizes it’s Connor, holding a dark blue sweater in his hands.</p>
<p>Connor notices and returns the look with a bit of surprise. “Hey.”</p>
<p>“Hey.” Hank clears his throat. “How’s it going? I haven’t seen you in a while.”</p>
<p>Connor winces. He folds the sweater over his arm and closes the distance, standing next to the rack with him. This close, Hank can see his hands are shaking. “I’m doing alright,” he says quietly. “Sorry for the radio silence. I just can’t make plans right now, I’m…” He takes a deep breath, then admits, “I’m detoxing. I can’t manage much on top of work and trying to hold myself together.”</p>
<p>Hank understands it takes a lot for Connor to say that. He may be comfortable with the group, but he’s careful not to say things that are too personal, like this is. And he can read between the lines to see that this is an admission of relapse, too.</p>
<p>He knows what it’s like for himself to go a couple of days without alcohol, and he knows he’s turned tail every time he started to shake, never committing to quitting. He can only imagine the physical and mental stress Connor has to push through. “Are you managing?” he asks.</p>
<p>Connor smiles thinly. “Barely. But one of my brothers stopped by and claimed my couch, so I have someone to help.”</p>
<p>“Good. You deserve that.” Hank pushes aside some of the shirts as he spots one with a bright pattern. He considers extending an offer to Connor, that the other man can call him anytime if he needs anything, but he’s hesitant to do so. Friend or not, the last thing he needs for addiction help is support from an active addict.</p>
<p>Hank’s doing better, step by step, but he’s not where he wants to be. Connor’s taking the steps that he can’t take yet, and Hank wishes he were right there with him.</p>
<p>“Is the group working out for you?” Connor asks. “You deserve support, too.”</p>
<p>Hank snorts and gestures with the shirt in his hand. “Not that I’ve done anything to deserve it, but yeah, they’re helping. I think.”</p>
<p>“Hank.” Connor grasps his shoulder. “If people didn’t help each other just for the sake of it, we’d all be stuck in our own personal hells until we bit it. You’re worth it, okay? You have to believe that.”</p>
<p>It isn’t something Hank can change his mind on in a snap, but goddamnit, he doesn’t want to make Connor comfort him while he’s struggling himself. “I’ll work on it,” he promises.</p>
<p>Connor doesn’t look fully convinced, but he accepts the promise, letting go of Hank. “I’m also sorry we couldn’t hang out the other day. I couldn’t, but I wanted to. Do you still want to bake?”</p>
<p>“Well, now I have to, or else I’ll be stuck making banana bread the rest of my life,” Hank says. It’s a more comfortable path for the conversation to take.</p>
<p>Connor cracks a smile. “You’d get really good at it.”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure I could hold a candle to you. Speaking of, you probably think I’m completely oblivious”—god, Connor’s grin grows at that, he knows exactly where this is going—”but you run Eight’s Cakes, don’t you?”</p>
<p>“Not completely oblivious,” Connor says. “I’m flattered that you like my ‘smooth voice.’”</p>
<p>Hank groans. “Fuck, did I say that? I probably said that. Yeah, your videos are great, and they’re part of why I want to try baking in the first place. Maybe not homemade mascarpone levels of baking, though.”</p>
<p>“It’s not that hard, really.” Connor looks more relaxed than he did five minutes ago, and Hank’s glad that the silence between them didn’t mean anything. Despite the relapse and withdrawal, Connor still acts like himself, if a bit stressed. “I was thinking we could try making something together sometime. Next week should work out. I’ll feel better by then.”</p>
<p>Hank’s eyebrows shoot up. “I make one loaf of bread and you want to cook together?”</p>
<p>Connor scoffs. “No. I think it would be fun to work with someone else in the kitchen for once, and it’s something we’re both interested in. It wouldn’t be filmed or anything.” He glances to the side for a moment, then back to Hank. “You can bring your dog.”</p>
<p>“He’s not actually a chef.”</p>
<p>“Hank. Bring the dog.”</p>
<p>“Yes, chef,” Hank says with a lopsided grin. “I’ll make sure Sumo comes along. Let me know the time and place, I guess. I’ll be there.”</p>
<p>“Fantastic. It’s a date.” Connor steps back a couple of paces, further towards the sweaters. “I should actually get going, though. The lights are giving me a killer headache.” He gestures vaguely upwards with a finger, then turns, searching through the sweaters like he’s on a mission.</p>
<p>It’s not like he means anything by it, but the words still make Hank’s heart beat faster. He reasons that he’s just excited to have a friend again, and looks back at the shirt in his hands, continuing on his mission to buy some suitable clothes.</p>
<p>He leaves the store with a new sweater along with his shirts, something nice he can wear next week when the temperature drops.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Connor tosses his bag of new clothes into his bedroom when he gets home. He’s two steps back into the living room when a glass of water is shoved into his hands with a command: “Drink.”</p>
<p>He does as requested, downing half the glass before setting it on the table on his way into the kitchen. Assorted vegetables and a block of paneer sit atop the counter, and the smell of onions cooking in butter fills the apartment.</p>
<p>His heart sinks. “You’re making dinner?”</p>
<p>Silas scoops a dollop of garlic-ginger paste from a jar and plops it into the pan with a sizzle. “I thought we could use a break from stir-fry and takeout. I’m assuming you didn’t get anything while you were out?”</p>
<p>“No.” Dinner slipped Connor’s mind completely. It looks like the curry will take a while. “I was planning to record tonight.”</p>
<p>Resentment builds in his chest before he can quell it. He has the ingredients ready for entremets, small layered cakes with enough ingredients and tasks that it might take him half the night to make. It would take him out of his head and keep him from reaching for any drugs, keeping him busy for hours. This dish has been planned for a while and he’s spent the day at work hyping himself up for it.</p>
<p>He first told Silas two days ago that he was planning to make this today.</p>
<p>“Yeah, sorry. Work held me up so I didn’t get started on this as early as I wanted,” Silas says as he stirs the pot, not sounding very apologetic.</p>
<p>“I don’t have all the time in the world.” Connor raises the back of his hand to his forehead like that might do anything for his headache. “This is my job, Silas. I have a schedule to keep. I can’t have you taking over my kitchen whenever you feel like it.”</p>
<p>“I can’t have you passing out on me,” Silas says, pointing the spoon at Connor. “Or limping around because your everything hurts, or tripping because you’re dizzy, or getting sick and not rehydrating. So I’m making dinner and you’re sitting down for five minutes.”</p>
<p>Connor shakes his head and steps forward. “You don’t get it. I’m disciplined, I keep a schedule, and baking helps me. This is something I need.”</p>
<p>“After how you looked last night? Hell no. Sit down.”</p>
<p>“This isn’t a game.”</p>
<p>“That’s exactly why I’m doing this.” Silas sets aside the spoon, turns down the heat, and leans against the counter. “You need to take a break before you kill yourself. Did you have any down time today at all?”</p>
<p>“If all you’re going to do is patronize me, you can go,” Connor bites out.</p>
<p>“I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to make sure you don’t end up hurting yourself, okay? Working nonstop isn’t going to keep you sober or healthy.” Silas looks to the side, lips drawn in a thin line. “If you’re determined to record tonight, fine. I can make pasta and sauce and be done in half an hour. But fancy little cakes with ten different components are out of the question, and I will sabotage the recording.”</p>
<p>Tears prick at Connor’s eyes, and he can’t say why this is so important to him, only that he needs his decisions to matter. “I need to do this.”</p>
<p>Silas reaches forward and takes Connor’s hand, and that’s when Connor realizes he’s shaking, as the tremors stop within Silas’ grasp. “God knows I don’t want to get in the way of you doing something good, but you’re pushing yourself too hard,” he says gently. “You asked me to look out for you. This is where I have to draw a line, Connor. I can see you hitting your limit even if you can’t. I’m sorry, but this week, you need to take a step back.”</p>
<p>Then Silas hugs him. It’s brief and uncertain, but it makes Connor’s thoughts scatter before they scramble back together.</p>
<p>“I’m not hitting my limit. I just need some coffee,” Connor says, but he’s slowly realizing that Silas is right. As much as he feels pressure to bake and record tonight, the thought of resting his head on a soft pillow sounds wonderful right now.</p>
<p>“Do you need me to cut this short so you can make something after dinner?” Silas asks, hands on Connor’s shoulders. His brown eyes meet Connor’s and he waits patiently for Connor to answer him.</p>
<p>It takes a minute to make that difficult decision. “No. You’re right.” Connor steps away from his brother in order to flop onto the couch, made particularly comfortable thanks to the presence of blankets, a moment before he recalls that this is where Silas is sleeping.</p>
<p>Oh, well. He won’t mind Connor sitting here for a bit.</p>
<p>He hates to admit his brother is right. It’s not the healthiest way to cope, piling too much on his plate and pushing himself too hard, but sometimes it feels like the only thing that will help. Still, he thinks he should do something for the camera, but he’s been so set on this dessert that thinking about anything else scrambles his thoughts.</p>
<p>Maybe he can enlist Silas to help him make something small. Go through the motions, even if he doesn’t record anything.</p>
<p>Silas starts chopping all the vegetables, a pleasant and soothing sound, and Connor loses himself to the sounds and the swirls in the ceiling. After a few of them have been chopped, Silas says, “Dad called. He wanted to know how you were doing.”</p>
<p>“Did you tell him to fuck off?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t tell him anything,” Silas says. “I wanted to tell him all about you. That you’re working so hard, your channel’s doing fantastic, and you’re fighting your demons the best that you can, and that I’m so proud of you for all of that.”</p>
<p>Connor furrows his eyebrows. “Does he know why you’re in Detroit? Does he know…?”</p>
<p>“He knows I’m at your place, but not why.” Silas sighs. “He still won’t respect your gender, and he pretends I’m not gay. Nothing’s changed on that front. I don’t think Niles has spoken to him for a month, this time. I think he wants our parents out of his daughter’s life for good.”</p>
<p>“She deserves better than anything they can give her.”</p>
<p>“What I wouldn’t give to have a dad like Niles.”</p>
<p>Connor snorts. “What, a guy who puts worms in your shoes?”</p>
<p>“Con, we were five.”</p>
<p>“Mischief doesn’t have an age limit.”</p>
<p>“Yes, and I suppose he’s raising a little devil to take after him,” Silas says. There’s the sound of a knife scraping across the board. “So, don’t say anything about you?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to give them any more reason to try talking to me,” Connor says.</p>
<p>“No problem.”</p>
<p>It’s been hard, removing his parents from his life, but necessary. They held him back too much, and it was only after he moved out and began living as himself that he realized just how toxic they were to him and his brothers. The move to Detroit helps solidify that distance between them. Silas is still in contact with them, but he suspects it’s only a matter of time before he, too, stops talking to them.</p>
<p>It’s sad, and there’s an ache in his heart as Connor misses them. He sorely wishes his family could be whole again.</p>
<p>For now, though, he has all that he needs, and a small smile blooms on his face. That Silas said he’s proud of Connor means more than anything their parents have ever said.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Fortunately for Connor, he doesn’t feel absolutely miserable when the next meeting comes around. The regulars look pleased to see him there, Hank especially, and Markus makes a point of checking in on him afterwards before staying for coffee with his brother, Leo. The sight warms him: The brothers used to have a rough time getting along, according to Markus, but they’ve slowly and surely been mending their relationship. (He suspects drugs may have been a spark for their conflicts, but he’s not about to pry.)</p>
<p>He makes plans to hang out with Hank later that week. A fancy cake with a few layers will give them plenty to do, and really, there’s no way to mess up the gelatin layer, and the cake part itself is simple, so that will be something to be proud of.</p>
<p>It’s going to be fun. It will be theirs, so it’s okay if something gets messed up. Connor suspects Hank is a very hands-on kind of guy, someone who will want to dive in instead of sitting back and watching as Connor teaches, and that’s exactly what he wants. It might be too awkward otherwise.</p>
<p>Silas gets sent away with plentiful assurances and a cooler full of sweets for him to split with Niles and Felicity. Their niece inherited the family sweet tooth, causing headaches for Niles but giving Connor prime opportunity to spoil her, and he takes advantage of that every chance he gets.</p>
<p>Connor’s cleaning his workspace in advance of their planned get-together when Hank gives him a call.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Connor says, picking up the phone after drying his hands. “How’s it going?”</p>
<p>“Hey, Connor. We still on for tonight? You haven’t changed your mind or anything?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m getting everything ready right now.” He leans against the counter, chewing his lip. Something sounds off. “Is everything okay?”</p>
<p>“Listen, I don’t know if this’ll work out today. I just…” Hank sighs. “I don’t know if I can make it work. I’m sorry. I feel like shit about backing out like this.”</p>
<p>Connor’s heart sinks. “Okay,” he says quietly, pressing his lips into a firm line. He tells himself he tried not to set expectations in the first place to avoid this sort of disappointment, but it still hurts. “We could watch a movie or something instead, if you still want to hang out. No pressure to make anything.”</p>
<p>“It isn’t that. I want to try baking with you, but it might not be good for you if I did come over,” Hank says. “I don’t mean that in a patronizing way. I mean I don’t want to be a negative influence or create a bad environment. Something like that.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Connor furrows his eyebrows.</p>
<p>“I drink. Fuck, I can’t go an afternoon without a couple of drinks. God knows I want to try, but it bites me in the ass after. I’m not sober, and I don’t want to introduce that into your place.”</p>
<p>It takes Connor a moment to comb through Hank’s words and his own emotions, and then he chuckles, a weight lifting off of him. “It’s nothing I did, then? And nothing serious?”</p>
<p>“Hell no. This is on me.”</p>
<p>Connor shakes his head. “It’s okay. I understand. If you still want to come over, I’m okay with it.”</p>
<p>“Connor, you don’t—”</p>
<p>“I don’t have a problem with alcohol,” Connor interrupts. He means it. “Really. If you need to drink while you’re here, I get it. It’s not going to make me feel worse unless you’re drunk. Alcohol isn’t my doc.”</p>
<p>Hank’s quiet, probably thinking it over. Connor taps his fingers restlessly against his leg while he waits. “It’s not going to tempt you or anything?”</p>
<p>“No. I promise.” Connor drinks casually, and he’s overindulged a few times, but he hasn’t gone down the path of alcohol dependence. He doesn’t want to tempt it, but it’s still miles away from his habits with red ice, and he doesn’t want to lose this chance to get to know Hank better. “I won’t be uncomfortable with it.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Hank concedes. “As long as you’re sure.”</p>
<p>“Completely. And Hank?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“It means a lot that you asked, and that you were honest. Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well. Don’t go thanking me when I ruin your kitchen.”</p>
<p>Connor smiles. “See you soon.”</p>
<p>“See you.”</p>
<p>Connor slips his phone back into his pocket and resumes prepping. It’s a nice thought to be able to share a hobby without having their vices come into it, but facing the reality of the situation, he realizes it doesn’t have to be grim or something to resign himself to.</p>
<p>Instead, it’s a reminder of why they’re doing this in the first place.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Connor answers the door to greet Hank, but his attention is immediately drawn to the giant, fluffy dog beside him.</p>
<p>“Oh, my god,” Connor says, kneeling down and engulfing Sumo in a hug like a huge teddy bear. The dog nuzzles into his neck, snuffling and licking his cheek, and he giggles. “You’re so soft. Hi, Sumo.” He looks up at Hank over Sumo’s shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you had a pet bear.”</p>
<p>Hank shrugs. “Pets look like their owners, right?”</p>
<p>Connor raises his eyebrows. He wouldn’t have said it out loud, but Hank absolutely looks like a bear, and it looks like he knows it. “Something like that.” He kisses Sumo’s forehead and stands, welcoming Hank inside. “I’m glad you could make it.”</p>
<p>Once inside, Hank unclips Sumo’s leash. The dog immediately loses interest in Connor in favor of exploring this new place, and Connor realizes he’s going to need to vacuum after this. It’s worth having the fluffy monster in his place for the afternoon, though.</p>
<p>“I’m glad you talked me into it.” Hank lifts the small cooler in his hand. “Where should I put this?”</p>
<p>“Living room table is fine, since we’ll need all the kitchen space we can get.”</p>
<p>Hank obliges, dropping off his cooler before following Connor into the kitchen with a low whistle. “Damn, it’s different seeing it up close. Kind of like walking onto a movie set and realizing it’s real. What’s the rent like?”</p>
<p>“Not outrageous, but it’s not easy to find a place with a kitchen like this. I actually considered a house before this, you know? But it’s just me, and I didn’t want all that empty space.” He’s proud of the kitchen, apartment or not. His last one barely scraped by on his standards for filming. This one has so much more counter space, an oven that isn’t twenty degrees off, and a kitchen island. The lighting is excellent. The first time he took photos of it and recorded a video was fantastic.</p>
<p>There’s flour, sugar, bowls, flavorings, gelatin, a carton of eggs, and all sorts of other ingredients and implements already set out around the kitchen, ready to be used. It’s so much more chaotic than his shows and representative of his casual baking. It’s a mess, but Hank doesn’t seem to mind, already looking over the ingredients like he’s trying to piece together what they’re about to make. That relieves some of his stress. It’s not like most people will complain about an imperfect kitchen, but he still worries, and part of him wants to impress Hank.</p>
<p>Connor slides a measuring cup across the counter towards Hank. “We’ll start with the sponge.”</p>
<p>“That’s a lot of stuff for a simple cake.”</p>
<p>Connor nudges him with his elbow. “You’re not afraid of a few layers, are you?”</p>
<p>“Not with you by my side.”</p>
<p>That makes Connor grin. “I’ve got a plan for this, but tell me if you’ve got other ideas. Lemon sponge, strawberry gelée, basil mousse, cream cheese mousse, and a mirror glaze. I wanted to go for small molds instead of one large cake so that they chill faster.”</p>
<p>“I’m having a hell of a time trying to visualize that. Sounds terrifying,” Hank says. “I’m in.”</p>
<p>“Great. We’ll start on the cake first, so we need one cup of flour. I have the recipes memorized instead of written, by the way. It’s easier for me.” Connor pulls the bag of sugar over and measures some out.</p>
<p>“Flour, baking powder, sugar, egg. Or something like that. How are you doing?” Hank asks, pouring the appropriate amount of flour into the cup and then the bowl. “Better than last week?”</p>
<p>“Much. I’m holding up okay. Once I got past the worst of it, it’s—not quite smooth sailing, but easier. Better with the help of my brothers and the group, you included.”</p>
<p>“What about your parents?”</p>
<p>Connor grimaces. “Disowned. It’s just my brothers and niece, now. They’re not in Detroit, but we’re close.”</p>
<p>“Good. You deserve family.” Hank pours the flour into the bowl. “I don’t have family anymore. Well, maybe Jeffrey. He’s stuck by my ass long enough I don’t think I’ll ever shake him. We haven’t talked much lately, but I think he’ll be there for me.”</p>
<p>“You deserve family, too,” Connor says, eyes flicking up to Hank’s face. His initial guess that Hank may have had a kid is out the window, though the ‘anymore’ leaves him with questions that aren’t polite to ask. “Whatever form it comes in.”</p>
<p>Hank chuckles before adding baking powder to the flour, and Connor thinks there’s something sad to it, but his voice is light. “I’m working on that. Accepting support and keeping people in my life. Do you think I’m doing alright?”</p>
<p>“That you’re working on it at all is enough.” Connor grabs the butter. “Keep up with it. Don’t push people away. Sounds easy, but I think you already know that can be hard as hell.”</p>
<p>“The last thing I want to do is push you away.”</p>
<p>Connor pours the sugar and butter into a second mixing bowl, this one with a mixer attached, which he flicks on. “We’re creaming the butter and sugar first,” he explains, and he’s sure Hank’s seen him do this a few times on video. “Then eggs, lemon, milk, and the dry ingredients.” He takes the eggs out of the carton, making sure they don’t roll away on the counter.</p>
<p>“I gotta get me one of these,” Hank says, nodding at the stand mixer. “It’s like your favorite appliance.”</p>
<p>Connor laughs. “Yeah. It’s a really nice investment.” He slides the eggs over towards Hank, but his hands linger next to his on the counter. “I don’t want to push you away, either. Not when either of us is struggling.”</p>
<p>Hank’s fingers touch his and he leans forward. “I don’t feel like I have a lot to be grateful for lately, but between you and the group, it feels like I have more than I have in years. Would you believe me if I said I’m usually more of an asshole than this?”</p>
<p>“Just goes to show you might be getting better in more ways than one.” Connor’s eyes are drawn down to Hank’s lips, and he’s very aware of how close they are now, how nice Hank smells, and that he’s recently trimmed his beard.</p>
<p>And the way Hank is looking at him, tender and vulnerable and uncertain, brings forth something he hasn’t felt in a long while.</p>
<p>Connor cups his cheek, feeling the soft bristles of his beard, and tilts his head. “I’m glad you’re here.”</p>
<p>Hank closes the distance and kisses him. He’s gentle, with soft, chapped lips, and they part before long. “Okay?” Hank asks, his voice a whisper.</p>
<p>“More than,” Connor says, and pulls him in for another kiss.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!</p><p>You can find me on Twitter as @gildedfrost (18+), and I spend time in the <a href="https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3">New ERA</a> DBH Discord server as well! There's a channel on the server to chat about my works.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>